I Wuv Hugz
by theheathen42
Summary: A little plot bunny has been whispering in my ear about what Dean's childhood was like before his mother died. I've decided it was pretty average, and pretty happy. Titled after that famous shirt in Dark Side of the Moon.
1. Chapter 1: Tickles

_Once upon a time, Dean Winchester was a regular kid. His blonde hair was cut on the longer side, and there was a permanent smile on his face that highlighted his dimples. He loved Sesame Street and peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off. His mother was the most beautiful woman in the world and his father was his hero. _

_This is his story._

"Time to wake up, honey," Mary whispered as she rubbed Dean's tummy. She kissed his forehead and tickled his ribs.

"Stop it!" he giggled.

She tickled him harder, "Only if you get out of bed, you sleepy head!" Dean's laughter was infectious, and she joined in.

"Don't wanna get outta bed! I'ma sleepyhead!" He clutched his hands tight under his chin and his arms squeezed in against his torso, but to no avail. Mary's fingers worked their way back to his ribs. "Daddy!" he yelled, still laughing.

John shook his head and grinned when he peaked in the door. The daily ritual was right on schedule. "Did somebody call for Daddy?" he asked, trying to keep a serious face. "Is somebody in trouble?"

"Me! Me!" Dean shouted, wriggling around on the bed but not trying _too_ hard to escape his fate.

John crossed over to the bed and stood above his wife and squirming son. "What's the matter?" he asked, pretending confusion.

"Ticklemonster!" Dean yelled.

"Ticklemonster?" John gasped. "That's the worst kind of monster!"

Mary smiled up at her husband. She loved this part of the day more than any other.

John grinned back at her. "Do you know how to fight a ticklemonster, Dean?" he asked, an impish gleam in his eye.

Dean, out of breath from laughing and from anticipation could only ask, "How?" His green eyes were as wide as saucers as he looked up at his father.

"Youuu… **tickle it!**" John shouted as he pounced on Mary and gave her a taste of her own rib-tickling medicine. Her hair smelled like the strawberry-scented shampoo she used, and he took in a deep breath and kissed her neck.

Mary gasped for breath between her laughter and tried to pretend it was hurting her. "No! **No!** Not… **tickles!**" she screeched. "Anything but that!"

Dean jumped up and down on his bed. "Get her, Dad!" he cheered. "Get that ticklemonster!"

Mary pulled away from John and turned to face him, fingers wriggling. "It's not that easy, is it?" she mocked. "Since you like tickling so much, let's see how much you like it when it happens to **you!**" She quickly dove in under John's arms and brought her clever fingers up to his neck. His ribs were impervious to attack, but the back of his neck was where the magic happened.

John instantly collapsed on a heap on the floor, laughing and struggling to get away from his wife. "No! Please! Stop!" he gasped, tears welling up in his eyes.

Mary saw her chance. "I've got you now!" she shouted in triumph, reaching down now to scratch the bottoms of her husband's feet, another sensitive spot.

"Dean!" John shouted. "Quick! Get her!"

Dean slid down off his bed a bit awkwardly, almost falling onto his bum on the floor due to the height of the mattress. Regaining his balance, he ran over to where his parents were laughing on the floor and started poking Mary amateurishly in the ribs. "I save you!" he shouted. "I getting the ticklemonster!"

Mary fell back off of John rather theatrically. She threw herself onto her back on the floor and groaned loudly with each poke by her son. "Oh no!" she wailed. "It's too much!" Once more she exchanged a smile with her husband. It was time for the monster's big death scene. "Woe is me!" she cried, the back of one hand going to her forehead. "Dean the master tickler is here!" She covered her face with both of her hands. "I can feel myself changing!"

Grabbing Dean and holding him close, she moved her body around on the floor as if she was struggling which conveniently felt an awful lot like bouncy hug to her son. Then, suddenly she stopped.

"Okay now, Mommy?" Dean asked in a quiet voice, looking carefully at her face.

"All better, sweetie," she smiled at him. "Thank you for saving me from the ticklemonster."

"Dad helped," he replied with all the gravitas of a four year old hero.

John stood up and then pulled Dean up into his arms for a kiss on the cheek. His son wrapped his arms around his neck and returned the gesture with a loud smack. "Ooh, that was a loud one," he laughed. "Who wants pancakes?" he asked as he leaned down to give his wife a hand up from the floor.

"Me!" Dean shouted, raising his hands above his head in excitement.

Mary kissed the back of Dean's head and then took him from her husband into her own arms. "Alright, sweetie, but you have to wash your hands first."

She kissed John on her way past him. "Love you," she grinned.

"Love you more," he grinned back. Whistling, he moved into the kitchen to start on breakfast.


	2. Chapter 2: Tee Ball

"Watch me!" Dean ordered, hitting the top of his batting helmet like he'd seen men do on TV.

"We're watching," Mary reassured him as she held John's hand and in the stands.

"Keep your eye on the ball, son," John advised. "You just look at the ball and then hit it as hard as you can, okay?"

Dean nodded and, with a look of grim determination on his face, walked up to the tee. Screwing up his eyes and scrunching his nose he took the biggest swing he could. The ball flew off the tee and onto the grass. Dean's face lit up with a huge smile and he turned to make sure his parents were watching.

"Good job, Dean!" Mary cheered.

John laughed and clapped for his son. "Good job! Now run!"

The coach jogged over to Dean and pointed him towards first base. "Run over there, now Dean!"

Putting his head down, Dean ran over to first base as fast as his little legs would carry him. He was just like the men on the TV! When he got to the base, he jumped up and down excitedly.

John wrapped his arms around Mary's shoulder and kissed her hair. "What do you think?" he asked, "Centre fielder for the Royals some day?"

Mary flashed her son a double thumbs up and waved. "Maybe," she kissed her husband's cheek. "Or maybe he'll be the doctor who cures cancer."

"You know," John squeezed her against him and flashed her a smile, "I think it's good that we set achievable goals for him."

Mary turned back to the game and saw that same smile on her son's face. "Definitely," she nodded emphatically. "We don't want to be like those parents who expect their kids to be professional athletes _and_ Nobel-prize-winning scientists." She stood up and cheered as Dean ran to second base after his teammate hit the ball. "I'd be happy with a Pulitzer, instead."

"I know," John suggested giving his wife a mild chuck under the chin. "Heavy Weight Champion of the World."

Mary's smile faltered a little bit. "No, I don't like the idea of him fighting," she shook her head adamantly. "What about conductor of the Boston Philharmonic?" she teased, knowing her husband's distaste for classical music.

John clapped loudly and then brought his hand to his mouth for a loud whistle. "How about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?" he suggested, wistfully. "Right next to AC/DC."

Mary chuckled, "Riiight. Cuz those guys are gonna be around for a long time."

John mimed getting shot in the heart. "Honey," he tutted. "Words hurt."

"I'll make you feel better, later," she replied archly.

Suddenly John wasn't thinking about tee ball anymore. "C'mon Dean!" he cheered, watching as Dean rounded third and was waved to home by his coach. Both parents stood up and cheered loudly as their son, once more emulating the players he watched on TV, attempted to slide into the plate. Unfortunately, instead of sliding, he fell deliberately onto his face and slapped home plate.

Mary gasped and John tried to contain his laughter. He'd have to teach Dean how to slide properly so that his son would have a chance to survive until kindergarten.

Dean looked up at his parents who were rushing over. "I did it!" he exclaimed proudly. "I touch-ted home!" Then his brow wrinkled and his lower lip started quivering. "Ow!" he cried, bringing his dirty fingers up to touch his chin. "**Ow!**" His eyes started to water.

By that time, Mary had arrived by his side. She took him up in her arms, removed his helmet, and brushed his sweaty hair off his forehead. "Let me see it, sweetie," she cooed softly, carrying him over to the bleachers.

John followed with the helmet and sat down with his arm around his family. "Aw, that's just a scratch," he teased gently. "Nothin' to cry about." He kissed his son's head and wiped a tear off his cheek. "You'll be okay."

Mary leaned over and blew on the wound. "Want Mommy to kiss it better?" she asked.

Dean sniffled a bit, trying to stop crying. "Mmhmm," he nodded. His mother leaned over and placed her lips carefully next to his owie. Just like magic, it didn't hurt as much anymore.

"Now," Mary cleared her throat and pasted a smile back on her face. "Who wants lunch?" She gestured to the picnic basket they'd brought with them.

"But tee ball…" Dean sniffled.

"They'll manage without you," John reassured him. "Besides, your Mom made pie."

Dean's whole face lit up. "Pie?" Tee ball forgotten, he ran ahead of his parents to an empty picnic table under a tree. He climbed right up on top of the table and bounced impatiently while he waited for them to catch up.


	3. Chapter 3: Army Guys

Dean sat on the floor of his bedroom with his best friend Robbie. Robbie lived next door with his parents Mike and Kate and his little sister Joanie. Dean didn't play with her, though, because she was just a baby.

Dean and Robbie were involved in an intricate game of soldiers. They had little green Army Guys scattered all over the floor as well as most of the flat surfaces they could reach. Some of them were lying on their sides, already killed by other Army Guys and others were advancing in groups to kill their opponents. There were lots of sound effects emanating from the mouths of the two almost-four-year-olds and a fair amount of violent deaths for the poor pieces of plastic they were playing with.

"You got a plane, Dean?" Robbie asked around a mouthful of candy. They weren't supposed to eat it because their moms were making lunch downstairs, but Dean had managed to sneak some out of the covered dish in the living room so both boys were chewing toffees with lip-smacking enjoyment.

"Yeah!" Dean jumped up and went to his desk. "It's up here!" He crawled first on the chair and then up on his desk so that he could grab a model airplane from the high shelf. He bounced down onto the floor with no fear for his life (or for those of the Army Men directly below him) and showed his friend the replica of a WWII fighter plane.

"Cooooool!" Robbie cooed, eyes wide with jealousy.

"My Dad made it," Dean boasted. His Dad could do anything.

"Your dad is awesome!" Robbie cheered, albeit with a certain amount of envy in his eyes. _His_ Dad had never made him a WWII fighter airplane of his very own.

"He's the best Dad in the whole wide world," Dean confirmed.

"Well… he's pretty good." Robbie admitted, "but I don't know that he's the _best one_ _**ever**_." He picked up the airplane and inspected it. Biting his lip, he came to a conclusion. "Prolly top 5, though," he decided with a firm nod.

"He's a hero!" Dean continued, determined to make his friend see that his father was number 1. "He fought in a war and killed bad guys and he has the best car of any Dad we know and he married my Mom and my Mom would only marry the best guy in the _world_ because she's the most beautifullest and smartest and best Mom so she needs the bestest man to be the Dad."

Robbie tried to find a flaw in this argument, but it was pretty solid. "My Mom's beautiful and smart, too!" he insisted. "So my Dad has to be good because he married _her_."

Dean thought about this for a little bit. "Okay, yeah. Your Mom's good too. She makes really good snacks and she always cuts the crust off and she never makes me drink milk cuz it tastes gross." His brow furrowed in concentration. "But your Dad hasn't killed any bad guys, so my Dad's still better even if our Moms are both the same."

Robbie had no argument for that one. "Maaaybe," he admitted. "But only cuz you said my Mom's as good as your Mom." With that argument settled they continued playing with the Army Guys.

"Why'd you ask about a plane?" Dean asked after about a dozen plastic soldiers had been killed.

"Oh yeah!" Robbie jumped up. "If they have a plane, they can totally parachute down on the enemy and surprise 'em and destroy 'em and the enemy won't know what happened and they'll all die!"

"Coooool!" Dean looked at his friend with a newfound respect. He'd been playing with the Army Guys for a long time now and he'd never thought of that. It opened up whole new avenues for playing. "What can we use for parachutes?"

The boys abandoned their soldiers to their fates and started running around the top floor of the house looking for possible parachutes. Eventually, they settled on tissues from the bathroom tied on with the laces from John's running shoes.

Climbing up on the bed, they got momentarily distracted by jumping on the bouncy mattress. Soon enough, however, they were back to the business of the war being waged on the carpet of Dean's room. They took turns 'flying' the airplane over groups of soldiers and dropping one down into their midst, creating an explosion of bomb and gun noises as he hit the ground. This morning's entertainment was the most fun either boy could remember having.

Eventually, as so often happens, there was a disagreement over whose turn it was.

"My turn!" Robbie sang out happily.

"Nuh-uh!" Dean shook his head. "You just went! It's my turn!"

"No way!" Robbie shouted back, "You just had your turn! It's my turn now!"

"It's my plane!"

"It's my Army Guys!"

"Not _all_ of them!"

"_I _thought up the parachutes!"

"_I_ found the Kleenex!"

"_I _tied them on!"

It soon devolved into a wrestling match over possession of the plane and the boys could hear footsteps on the stairs indicating that someone's Mom was about to come in and settle things once and for all.

Unfortunately, they were arguing on Dean's bed and just as Mary and Kate opened the door, both boys fell onto the floor with the airplane beneath them. A heart-wrenching cracking noise reverberated around the walls.

The boys stared at each other in horror, and then Dean started crying. "My _plaaaane_!"

Robbie followed suit, "I didn't _mean_ it!"

After that, their wails were unintelligible. Each boy's mother took him in her arms and checked for injuries. There were a couple of bumps that would probably bruise, but it was the plane that had borne the brunt of the fall. It lay there on the floor in several pieces, clearly irreparable.

Mary and Kate exchanged a look over their sons' heads. They took the tissue parachutes and wiped up the tears, kissing cheeks and smoothing hair of foreheads and rubbing backs until the boys calmed down.

"Alright, Dean, I want you to give Robbie a hug and say you're sorry," Mary instructed.

"But…"

"No buts, young man," she waved a finger sternly.

"You too, Robbie," Kate insisted.

"But…"

"No." She gave a similarly stern look, "Both of you made a mistake, so both of you should apologize."

The two mothers crossed their arms and waited. Reluctantly, the boys embraced in a brief hug and mumbled, "S'ry."

"Alright," Kate said brightly. "Who wants lunch?"

Robbie sniffled and wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. "Me," he replied sullenly.

When Dean didn't say anything in response, Mary exchanged another look with Kate.

"Okay, Robbie, let's go get you some mac n' cheese." Kate led her son down the stairs to the kitchen, allowing Mary time with her own child.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" she asked, sitting down on the bed and patting the mattress beside her.

"Nothin'" Dean mumbled, joining her on the bed and burying his face under her arm.

"Is it the plane?" she asked.

Dean nodded against her, not saying anything.

"We can get another one," she reassured him.

"But…"

"But?"

"But Dad made that one and he said it was special and he took extra care with it and it was super hard and he's gonna be mad cuz I broke it and I promised I'd be super careful with it and I wasn't," Dean said in a rush, still not moving his head away from her body.

Mary smiled down at her little boy. He always worried so much. She wondered where he got that from. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll talk to him."

"But…"

"But?"

"But Betsy Robinson told me at the park that…"

"That what?"

Dean peeked out from under her arm and bit his lip. His eyes kept going from his mother's round stomach all over the room and back again.

"Dean?" Mary prompted.

"She said that I need to be extra good because you're gonna have another baby and if you like that baby better, you'll send me to the norflage and I won't live here anymore."

Mary puzzled over that one for a moment. "You mean 'orphanage'?" she asked.

"S'what I _said_," Dean confirmed with some annoyance. "An' I don't wanna go to the norflage cuz then some other family will take me home and they won't be nice like you. They'll be all mean and hate me and treat me bad."

"Oh, honey," Mary tried to suppress a chuckle. "We'd _never_ send you to an orphanage!"

Dean looked up at her with large, damp eyes. "Promise?"

"I promise."

"You won't ever send me away?"

"Never."

"Not even if I make you super angry?"

"Not even then."

"Not even if you like the baby more than me?"

"That's not possible, sweetheart," she smiled at him. "You know you're my favourite little man."

Dean wanted to really nail things down, though, so he had to ask. "_Not even_ if Dad wants to send me away?"

"He would _never!_" Mary insisted. "And if he even joked about it, he'd be in big trouble!"

Dean's eyes got as big as saucers. "Middle-_name_-trouble?" he asked, that being the biggest trouble he'd seen in his almost four years of life.

Mary nodded. "Middle-name trouble."

Dean nodded, finally secure in his place. He jumped down off the bed and grinned at her. "Lunchtime?"

"Lunchtime," Mary laughed, getting off the bed a bit more slowly and taking his hand.


	4. Chapter 4: Bedtime

John ruffled his son's hair as the little boy sat at a table drawing pictures with his 24-pack of crayons. He didn't have the same knack that Mary had at guessing what the seemingly random squiggles represented, but he was getting better.

"Whatcha drawin' there, Dean?" he asked, mentally guessing that it was a dog.

"'Sa dog!" Dean stated proudly.

John grinned broadly, dimples appearing in his cheeks. "Yeah, I see that." He reached for the paper and brought his son up into his lap from the floor in front of him. He pointed to part of the picture. "This is the tail, right?"

Dean nodded, "Uh huh. And _this_," he poked the paper rather forcefully with his index finger, "Is the head!" A few more pokes severely tested the paper's structural integrity. "An' _this_ an' _this_ an' _this_ and _this_ is the legs!"

"Very good, Dean!" John praised him, kissing him on the crown of his head. "You're a really good artist."

"I know."

John laughed at his son's lack of modesty. "Alright, how about we put this on the fridge and then get ready for bed?"

Dean's happiness at getting an exhibition turned to disappointment at the sound of bedtime. "Don't wanna go to bed," he pouted.

"I know buddy," John swung his son up under his arm and carried him sideways into the kitchen where his wife was doing a crossword puzzle at the table. "But if you don't go to bed then you don't get a bedtime story." He plopped Dean down on his feet in front of the fridge and allowed him the chance to put the magnets on his picture, all by himself.

"What's that, honey?" Mary asked, coming over to the latest masterpiece to grace the refrigerator door. "A dog?"

Dean's smile was huge and proud. "Uh huh!"

"Good job, angel," she smiled and leaned down to kiss his cheek. "Are you going to get ready for bed now?"

After a fraction of a second's hesitation, Dean chose storytime over playtime and nodded, though a bit glumly.

Mary exchanged a knowing glance with her husband. "Who do you want to help you in the bath tonight, sweetheart?"

"Daddy!" Dean shouted, jumping up and down for his father to pick him up again. He always chose Daddy because Daddy let him splash a lot more and always made funny hair dos with the shampoo and then lifted him up to see them in the mirror.

Mary's broad grin belied her amusement. "Are you sure, Dean? You don't want Mommy to give you a bath tonight?"

"Nuh uh! Daddy give me a bath!"

John shook his head and chuckled. Time for another soaking. "Alright, buddy, uuuup you go!" he lifted Dean and slung him over his shoulder to take him up the stairs to the bathroom. Dean giggled and squirmed the whole trip, but John never came close to dropping him.

Once in the bathroom, John ran the water and Dean very carefully and solemnly chose the two toys he was allowed to bring into the bath with him. Today's winners were perennial favourites: a tugboat that he could squeeze and would squirt water out of the top and a sponge in the shape of a monkey.

With the toys in the bath and the tub filled, John turned to his son, "Strip." He aided him in getting his head and arms out of his shirt and brought the hamper over for the laundry to go in. "Pee first or pee after?" he asked.

"Pee first," Dean decided after a moment's consideration.

That done, he got into the lukewarm bath and started playing, making monkey noises when he played with the sponge and rumbling motor noises when he played with the tug boat. John busied himself with making sure that some actual bathing went on between the playing and splashing and shampooed Dean's hair into a Mohawk, two horns, and a mass of soapy 'curls', all of which Dean found hilarious.

Soon enough, bathtime was over and it was time to choose pajamas. Today's choice was a pair with blue stripes. With teeth brushed and a glass of water by his bed, Dean was ready for story time.

John sat on one side of his pillow and Mary sat on the other and Dean ceremoniously opened up his favourite bedtime story: Goodnight Moon.

Mary started, "In the great, green room, there was a telephone."

Dean interrupted, "Like we have in the kitchen."

"That's right," Mary smiled and turned the page.

John continued, "And a red balloon…"

Dean interrupted again, "Like I got at the zoo!"

"You know it buddy," John grinned. "… and a picture of the cow jumping over the moon."

"C'I jump over the moon, Daddy?" Dean asked.

"I don't see why not," John answered. "If you become an astronaut someday."

Dean turned the page, not concerned with the answer when there was still more book to read.

Mary took her turn again, "And there were three little bears sitting on chairs…"

"Like in Goldilocks?"

"Just like in Goldilocks." Mary turned another page.

"And two little kittens, and a pair of mittens…"

"But it's summer!" Dean argued. "They don't need mittens! Silly kittens!"

"Very silly," John agreed.

Mary read the next page while John got up and turned off the lights, being sure that the door was still open to the hallway, letting in some light. Then he returned to read the next page as Mary got up and opened the closet door, making a show of checking for monsters. When she read next, John checked under the bed. Then he read while she pulled down the blind.

Their voices got softer and softer as Dean started drifting off to sleep and they recited the last page of the book together, from memory. After reading the same book roughly 5000 times, they had their routine down pat. Hopefully their next child would be similarly fixated on that book.

They each kissed Dean goodnight on his forehead, John smoothing his hair out of the way and Mary tucking the blankets more snugly around him. As they left the room, they turned and gave him their usual nighttime farewells.

John whispered, "Sweet dreams, Dean."

Mary added, "Angels are watching over you."


	5. Chapter 5: Fever

"Time to wake up, honey," Mary whispered as she rubbed Dean's tummy and tickled his ribs.

Dean moaned a little bit and rolled over onto his side away from his mother. "No," he stated, softly but firmly.

Mary wrinkled her forehead. He was a decade away from being a surly teenager, and he loved their tickle-awake morning routine. "Angel?" she asked, turning him once more onto his back and smoothing his hair off of his forehead. "You're burning up!"

Dean looked up at his mother pathetically. "I don't feel good."

"Shh… it's okay, sweetie," Mary leaned down and kissed his feverish brow. "You just rest for now. I'll be right back, okay?"

Dean nodded weakly and hugged the stuffed bear that his mother had replaced in his arms.

When she exited the room, she saw John creeping down the hallway, trying to be quiet. He stopped short when he saw her. "No tickle monster today?" he asked, disappointed. He'd been hoping Dean wouldn't tire of it just yet.

"He's sick," Mary replied, trying not to look too worried. John and Dean were the only family she had left in this world. All the rest she had left behind with her other life.

John immediately when into crisis-management mode. "I'll call the doctor. Do you want me to take the day off work? How bad is it? Should we go to the hospital?" He strode down the hallway to the kitchen telephone as he fired off the rapid questions.

Mary smiled to herself. Seeing John react as strongly as she was trying not to actually made her feel calmer. "It's just a bit of a fever. I'll give him some children's Tylenol, and he should be fine." She hugged her husband and kissed his cheek.

John searched her face for that look he'd seen before. "You're _sure_?" he asked, one hand still reaching for the phone hanging on the wall.

Laughing, Mary kissed him on the lips this time. "I'm _sure_," she replied.

John still looked uncertain, but nodded anyway. It wasn't the first time Dean had been sick, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but they'd had a scare when he was colicky as an infant and had had to be taken to the hospital. Neither of them had ever really forgotten that fear. Setting his lips firmly, he made a decision. "I'll stay home today, anyway. Just in case."

"Go to work," Mary chided.

"But…"

"Go!" she laughed again, physically pushing him towards the door. "He's _fine_."

"Well…"

"And if he gets worse, I'll take him to the doctor, myself."

John immediately stiffened up. "If he gets worse, you _call_ me."

"I will," Mary soothed. "I'll call you, and we can meet at the doctor's, okay?"

John nodded, still looking like he'd rather stay. "Let me just check on him, first, okay?" he pleaded.

"Okay," Mary couldn't help the tears that started to well up. He was such a _good_ dad. "I'll call Mike and let him know you'll be a few minutes late to the shop."

"Thanks," John grinned, kissing her before heading down the hallway to his son's room.

Opening the door, he looked at his son. Dean looked smaller than his already-tiny three-year-old frame usually looked in the bed. He was clutching Paddington Bear in one hand and sucking the thumb of the other. He smiled weakly when his father entered the room.

"Hi, Daddy."

"Hey, buddy." John sat gingerly next to him on the bed and felt his forehead. It was hot to the touch, and the soft little cheeks that were usually rosy were flushed a bright red. "Mommy told me you don't feel so good."

Dean nodded. "I'm cold."

John stood up and went over to the closet, reaching up to the top shelf for an afghan. He laid it carefully over his shivering son. "That better?"

"Mmhmm."

"Mommy told me I should go to work, but if you want I can stay here with you today."

"Really?"

"Uh huh."

"But…"

"But what?"

"But what about the sick cars? You have to make them feel better."

John shook his head, smiling slightly. Leave it to Dean to think of someone, or in this case some_thing_ ahead of himself. He'd told him once that a mechanic made sick cars feel better, and it seemed that Dean had taken him at his word.

"Are you sure, Deanie?" John asked, tucking the blanket more securely around his son. "You're feeling sick, too."

Dean thought about it for a moment, clearly trying to make a difficult decision. Finally, his lips set in determination. "I'm sure, Daddy."

"Alright, buddy. But if you want me to come back home, just get Mommy to call me, okay?" John kissed his forehead and stood up, looking down at the sick boy in the bed. Three years old, and he was already willing to give up what he wanted for someone else. He was a pretty amazing kid.

"Okay, Daddy." Dean burrowed a bit further under the blanket. "Daddy?" he asked as John turned towards the door.

"Yes, Dean?" John turned back expectantly, thinking his son might have changed his mind.

"Make the cars feel better, okay?"

John smiled, "I promise."

That settled, Dean let out a large yawn, hugged Paddington one more time, and drifted off to sleep.

He woke a few hours later to the smells of cooking coming from the kitchen. His stomach gave a rumble which let him know that it was definitely interested in whatever was happening in there. Grabbing Paddington, he padded his way down the hallway to the kitchen. His mother was humming to herself while she stirred a pot on the stove.

"Mommy?" he asked. "C'I have lunch?"

Mary dropped the wooden spoon back into the pot and turned around quickly. "Dean! What are you doing out of bed?" She hurried over to him and quickly felt his forehead. It was still warm, but not as hot as it had been that morning. "Are you feeling better, angel?"

"No, I'm feeling hungry," Dean stated matter-of-factly. He sniffed dramatically at the air and looked pointedly at the stove.

His mother laughed and picked him up to deposit him in his chair. "Alright, alright," she rolled her eyes. "I can take a hint." She moved over to the stove and ladled out a bowl of tomato rice soup and brought it to him. Dean reached for the spoon, but she stopped him. "Just a second, honey," she warned. "It's a bit too hot for you."

"But Mommy…"

"No buts, mister," she shook her finger at him. "Let me cool it down for you, or you'll burn your mouth." Dean pouted in his chair, but Mary ignored him and reached into the freezer for some ice. She dropped two cubes into his bowl and stirred until they'd melted. "There. _Now_ you can eat."

Dean dove in with gusto, slurping up the soup and spilling a fair amount on his pajamas. Mary just shook her head. One of these days, she'd get it through his head that eating wasn't a race and that taking smaller bites wouldn't actually kill him. She grabbed a bowl of her own and sat down, chatting with her son about tee-ball, Sesame Street, his friends, and his favourite toy car.

Soon, Dean was fading again and in danger of falling asleep in his bowl. She grabbed a cloth from the sink and wiped his face and hands clean before carrying him back to his room and changing him into some clean pajamas. "I don't think you're quite better yet, sweetheart," she murmured as she guided him under his blankets.

"Don't wanna nap," Dean mumbled, already halfway asleep.

"Shh," she soothed him, kissing his cheek and taking his thumb out of his mouth. He started to protest, but quieted down as soon as she began to sing.

_Hey, Jude. Don't make it bad.  
Take a sad song and make it better.  
Remember to let her into your heart;  
Then you can start to make it better._

_Hey Jude. Don't be afraid._

_You were made to go out and get her. _

_The minute you let her under your skin,_

_Then you'll begin to make it better._

He was asleep long before she got to the chorus, but she continued singing anyway, all the way to the end of the song.


End file.
